There Are Thirteen Fealliers in a Swallow's Tail

PRESS

By PERCY ATKINSON

THERE is a certain afternoon periodical in New York that calls itself a newspaper—as indeed it is, and a very good one too. But it is even more than that. It is a consistent and conscientious distributor of useless information.

Here and there throughout the paper, wherever there is a chink or cranny of space to spare, the editor inserts a line or two — seldom more than four lines — to the effect that “the annual average rainfall in Siberia is 2½ inches per month,” or some other equally inane and inconsequential fact that couldn’t possibly be of the slightest interest or profit to any living soul. If this happened only once or twice, or even now and then, in the course of a week, a month, or a year, one might accredit it to an occasional impish impulse on the part of a compositor. But since this has been going on for years, and happens several times regularly in every issue, one can only infer that it must be the result of a studied and determined editorial policy.

Moreover, in these days of paper shortages when space is doubly precious, no responsible editor would deliberately waste even a slight chemical trace of newsprint on trifles. So it must be that these nuggets of useless information fulfill some constructive purpose or perform some necessary function that the editor recognizes and his public welcomes. For an editor of a highly successful metropolitan newspaper is fundamentally interested in just one thing—circulation.

All this led me to the conclusion that useless information has some peculiar mission or fascination. In further support of this conclusion, witness the success of “Information Please,” the Quiz Kids, the Answer Man, and scores of other radio programs whose chief claim to attention is the distribution of knowledge without wisdom, facts without value, information without terminal facilities.

If occurred to me that the public might welcome an opportunity to acquire, effortlessly and systematically, one item of useless information each day. Why they should want this information — what they would do with it after they got it — seemed to me beside the point, and surely no concern of mine.

Consequently I set up a modest organization for this purpose, charging subscribers to my service the small and insignificant amount of 10 cents an item, or $30 by the year.

The idea caught on almost immediately — that is, in a modified sort of way. Some 300 men and women in various parts of the country responded to my initial overture, each enclosing check or cash to cover a year’s subscription, the whole amounting to some $9000, which you must admit is no trifling sum. More promotion and more cash followed until, in a short time, I had approximately 10,000 subscribers (netting about $30,000), which was all I could handle since I was the sole owner and proprietor of the business as well as its entire personnel and working force. The useful money flowed in, the useless information flowed out, and everyone seemed quite happy about it all. Letters of appreciation were not unusual. I quote from several: —

“Thanks for letting me know that in Russia nearly 200 different racial groups live side by side. I cannot imagine a fact more devoid of interest or utility. Keep up the good work.”

“When I learned from you that geologists have demonstrated that certain portions of the Atlantic Ocean once were above the surface of the sea water, I knew that I was confronted by one of the most utterly inutile observations it has ever been my good fortune to encounter. It came as I was just about as discouraged as I ever have been at any time in my life over the absolutely indisputable fact that I shall not be able to have a new automobile this year. This throws an altogether new light on the matter, which doesn’t help in the least.”

“Picture my delight when my little blue envelope came this morning and I found out that California has 46 junior colleges. I don’t even know what this means, and I care less.”

“My maternal grandfather is ninety-two years old, and for some reason or other has seemed to lose interest in life. When you wrote me that it would take an Oxford graduate 103,456 years to read every book in the south wing of the New York Public Library, I passed the information along to him and for the first time in his life Grandpa expressed a desire to play a Chopin nocturne on the piano.”

Despite all my precautions, however, useful facts were bound to creep in occasionally. It just couldn’t be helped. A case of this kind follows: —

“Six weeks ago I subscribed to your service, your beguiling prospectus having made me feel amply confident that you could, and would, keep your promise to mail me one item of useless information daily.

“Each day when I entered my office, there it was in its neat blue envelope marked Private. Each day I read all the rest of my correspondence first, holding until the last that cherished little nugget which never failed to arrive. One day. it was, as you may recall, ‘Mount Pelée is 1717 miles distant from New York.’ Another time, ‘Linen was first woven by the Copts.’ And so it went, day after day, to my amazement, amusement, and delight.

“Then came: ‘There are thirteen feathers in a swallow’s tail.'

“I was delighted. I read it four or five times, and each time it seemed more useless than the time before. ‘Who cares.’ I chuckled, ‘how many feathers there are in a swallow’s tail?’ The swallow perhaps and maybe a few of his, or her, intimate friends. But who else? Believe it or not, to coin a phrase, I began to care. Please cancel my subscription.”

As time went on, more and more complaints came pouring in. Useful items had a way of slipping through that defied my powers of discrimination or detection to circumvent them. Unable to stand the pace any longer, I suspended operations. I wrote my subscribers that I might be reached in the future at Pale Face, Oklahoma. And that was probably about the most useless, as well as the most inaccurate, information they ever received from me.